


Doctor Doctor Where You At

by CharismaticEnticer



Series: Willingness (Counting!Verse) [4]
Category: Die Anstalt
Genre: Degradation, Devotion, Doctor/Patient, Id Fic, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation kinda, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, POV Third Person Limited, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Present Tense, The Author Regrets Nothing, Voyeurism, Wet Dream, autoeroticism, basically using a promiscuity slur to get him to come harder, but again it's an id fic this is what i do, erotic humiliation, prose is kinda purple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticEnticer/pseuds/CharismaticEnticer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes two to tango; remove one party and the other has to work double duty. Which, of course, is the point tonight.</p>
<p>WARNING: NSFW. A Counting!Verse interlude, set in the time skip before the end of Lapse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Doctor Where You At

**Author's Note:**

> Crap, the mixed chronology and 'reading order' of this universe is starting to get all over the place... I put something in the series notes a few days back to clear things up, so I hope that helps. 
> 
> Up until this point in time, I've been hosting all my NSFW stuff on my Tumblr, only ever moving it to this very site. It's worked well so far. But I think I'm going to reverse it from now on: post all the NSFW stuff here and link-cut over there. It makes sense both formatting wise and because Oversensitive is inexplicably my second most popular fic on AO3 at the time of writing, with 8.6% of the hits. Little Secrets has 10.5%.  
> (Don't get me wrong, I'm glad my tiny fandom's getting attention on here. It's just, when my most popular fics are a dialogue-only PWP and a crack pairing fic, I wonder if there's an ulterior motive to their popularity... the lure of Trainwreck Syndrome, perhaps?)
> 
> Recommended soundtrack: "Turn Me On" by Nicki Minaj and David Guetta. I especially recommend the ENRG Remix by Edge Original Inc.
> 
> Die Anstalt © Martin Kittsteiner.

_Hurry up hurry up hurry up hurry up hurry up hurry up..._  
The words chant in his mind almost ceaselessly, but no amount of internal pleading is getting the door of Dr Wood's office to open up any faster. The lights are on in there, so he must be inside, but he's already tried knocking twice, and nothing doing. No sound emerges to clue him in, apart from a soft thud at one point. He swears, the sneaky bugger must be doing this on purpose, just to get him all the more on edge.

To say that Dub would normally be waiting more patiently than this wouldn't be true; he's never had much room in his life for delays in anything, good or bad. It's just that when this thing, specifically this raven, in particular is what's being held out on, he has even less room than usual.  
It's been a while as it is. He hasn't been summoned up here since the Sunday just gone. Three whole days, or has it been four, and not a hint of the secret signal that says "I'll be expecting you tonight", a sign that in a few hour's time he'll be flooded with the longed-for friction of body on body, with the taste of cotton in his mouth, and most importantly with a pure burst of white slipping over him like the tides, consuming then dissipating...  
Dreaming of it can only hold him out for so long before the terseness creeps up.

But, thank Steiff, Wood slipped it this afternoon, a subtle tugging of the hood that shields his head. So it's evening now, and he's 'sleep-trekked' the ever more familiar path, dodging the security cameras, avoiding that creaking part of the floor, and this latest one on one session is close enough to keep his heart pounding in his chest non-stop.

Now if only he who brings about such things would hurry up already. _What the hell's keeping him, anyway?_

Finally, just as he's asking himself where they'd keep a crowbar in this place to cut the waiting short, he hears the brushing of cotton on carpet. A lock unclicks from the inside (oh, no wonder!), the door pulls itself inwards...  
"If you're still out here, I'm read--"

...and Dub all but hurtles himself through the gap, into the wings, onto the beak of Wood.

"Eager, are we?" the raven asks as the tension-releasing kiss breaks off, sprawled underneath him.  
"God yes. What took you so long?!"  
"Paperwork and preparations were more difficult than I thought they'd be. They have a habit of doing that."

_Couldn't that have waited?_  is what he tries to protest, but it becomes somewhat cruder before it gets out. "Screw the paperwork, Wood!"  
"Not when I have someone more to my tastes right here, thank you. Now, since you're clearly not going to shut the door..." He slides out from their floor-bound position to do so while Dub's thoughts take a few seconds to catch up.

"Honestly, though," Wood says when he's about done, getting him to turn around, "I have to admire your restraint right now, Dub. Four days without me, and you've still managed to stay within your boundaries. For the most part, anyway. I'm impressed."  
"And I'm... struggling." That's only half true - the first contact helped take some of the edge off - but he's not completely there yet either, if the shaking of his legs now that he's up again is anything to go by.  
"Hence 'for the most part'. But then, it's nothing that further kissing cannot cure. To your libido's content, to bastardize a phrase."

"Wait - you're gonna let me just kiss-?"  
The smile that crosses his beak, coupled with the recently forbidden order, is intoxicating. "Until you see fit to stop. After all this time, you've earned it."

The mouths collide again before the doctor can change his mind; this time it is the wall rather than the floor that they hit, he half-thinks, Dub stumbling forward into this embrace. His eyes closed, he detects him by feel, by the closeness of his grip, by the arc of his chest as it quickens in pace, all else lost in the fluidity of motion, and it's almost more than he can stand. And he nearly isn't, for an errant claw-foot is trailing over his right shin and the feeling's spreading and that isn't bloody helping. A brief pulling away, but only to go for the neck, or what of it he can get at, catching Wood off for only a second before his own attack starts, turning him into putty in his wings, perfection.

As they return to mouth-beak contact, Dub starts cheating and sneaking subtle peeks: partly to make sure Wood's enjoying this too; partly to see the world outside of the two of them, limited as it is. They're definitely on the wall, the door's to his left. But it takes a glance to the right, or what was the front before, to notice something off. Something not there before.

He brings it up when he manages to get his breath back. "H-hey. Wood. Can I ask a - slightly stupid question?" he says with a hitch.  
"Ih - if you think it's relevant."

"What's with the cushion?"

He doesn't know how he missed the thing when he came in, even with this amazing creature as a distraction. It was, after all, directly in his line of sight, not quite in the middle of the office. He looks at it properly now. It's square, and bigger than him, as most cushions are, and it's a sort of orange-ish colour, or that could be the lighting. It's one he'd more expect the therapist to have than Dr Wood.

"I was wondering when you'd spot that," says the Wood in question, getting his attention back. "That would be the 'preparations' I mentioned. That's where you're going to be tonight."  
"Ooh, we're getting kinkier all the time, aren't we?" A fourth kiss to punctuate. "First on the mirror, then on the desk, and now we're doing it on--"  
"Let me finish. That's where **you're** going to be. Meanwhile, I will be on my chair."

The mood comes to a halt with all the subtlety and smoothness of a pole vaulter crashing into their hurdle.  
"What?!" A scandalized Dub can't help but slip out of Wood's grasp. "You mean you put me off all this time and we're not even gonna _do_ anything? Why'd you even call me down here then?!"  
"You misund--"  
"You friggin' cocktease," he grumbles, arms folded. Petulant, he knows, but... Has he lost his touch? Did he do that bad a job that Wood doesn't want him anymore? He can't help but be hurt. Wounded and wanting - not a good combination.

Wood approaches him in a weak attempt to calm things. "Dub, you misunderstand. I didn't say we weren't going to do anything, only that we would be in separate parts of the room."  
"And how's you being over there and me being over here gonna lead to sex? Unless you're thinking of putting a big hand on the end of a stick and using that?"  
"I am, in a sense, thinking of that. Or at the very least, using a different hand as a proxy for--"  
"I was being sarcastic."  
"I know, I simply chose to--"  
"Wood, it's been four days, I'm horny as hell, can you cut out the cryptic psychobabble bullshit?"

"All right, I'll tone it down," the raven concedes, but there's a hint of a laugh in there. "Apologies, Dub. It's simply so pleasing to watch you squirm the way you do."  
 _For you, maybe..._ Still, the self-righteousness has gone away, so he decides to sit through Wood's train of thought. If it'll still lead to the whiteness he came here for like he's saying it will, it'll be worth it.

"Do you remember how this whole... 'relationship' started, Dub?"  
"Think so. Therapist was ill, you were taking his place, you started to rub my legs and--"  
"No, before that. How did I know doing that would bring about this in the first place?"  
Dub casts his mind back, struggling to find anything amongst the sessions and lessons. " _What before, there wasn't any -_ Oh! The dreaming thing!" The dreams, of course, those all too real fantasies that beset him at night.

"Indeed. I overheard you having one about me, and all that it entails. The next day, I managed to recreate it. Or its probable content, even if not the circumstances."  
"Y-yup, you did."  
"Do you still have those dreams?"  
"On and off. Haven't needed to much now that I've got the real thing. But I think I get where you're going with this," he says, putting one and one together.  
"Well done if you do. My plan for tonight is for you to, ahem, 'dream' on the cushion. And for me to watch."

_All right, not as bad as I thought._ At least sex on some level will occur, and Wood obviously still wants him here. The free kissing makes more sense now too.  
But... being watched? Isn't that kind of thing - dreaming - a one-toy act? The fact his superior found out about it skeeved him out when he heard (though only for a few seconds before something else got on his mind, or body). He's slightly uncomfortable, but is it enough to turn it down and risk waiting another four days? Augh, he's torn.

"Having trouble wrapping your head around that?" Wood asks, right on the money naturally.  
"Just slightly. I always assumed that sorta thing was something I should keep to myself, you know?"  
"Dub, be sensible. I've already heard you, we've already done much more multiple times, so this is the logical next step. You get the same thing out of it as you always do, and I get the pleasure of seeing first hand how you, well, pleasure yourself. Besides," he tries to sweeten the deal, "this way you'll be able to hear much more of my voice."  
 _Yeah, but it's your body I want._

"I just don't think--"  
"Dub." A cotton touch silences him, grey 'hand' up against his mouth. "You don't have to think. Not about this. Not tonight."

How is it he always knows just what to say? This lure is not enough to dispel the seed of doubt, but it does make it seem too small to bother with.  
"Oh, what the hell," he decides. "Try anything once, right?"  
"Precisely."

This done, Wood brushes past him to get in his chair, leaping up to the seat with pretty much no effort, while Dub makes his way to the undisturbed cushion. Why wait? He flops down on it back first, then shuffles himself into place proper. It's somehow even bigger when he's actually on the thing; still, it's softer than it looks, even if it sags in the middle to make room.

"Are you comfortable down there?" Wood's voice extends from above and ahead. It takes looking over his stomach covering to see him nearly on the edge of his seat.  
"Yeah. You can see me okay? Want me to move forward a bit?"  
"No, you're fine where you are."  
"What about the shell? Should I take it off?"  
"That too is fine. There's nothing you need to get at that you can't with it on. Close your eyes."

It's funny how cutting off his vision makes him so conscious of where the rest of him is. He's suddenly aware of his legs, which he pulls up now to be close together, knees raised, feet flat. He leans his head back to give it proper support, leaves his arms by his sides. Now it's just him, the cushion, the voice of his doctor, and blackness, the kind that will hopefully invert soon.

"'kay, ready."  
"Good. How do these dreams usually begin?"  
"They - don't. Well, they sort of start in the middle, if that makes sense."  
"With what?"  
"With you and what you do to me." He already feels like he's dreaming, talking to a bodyless sound like this. Therapy all over again.  
"What do I do to you?"  
"Touch me, mostly."  
"Where? What path do I take?"  
"Um. Shoulders first, then the--"  
"No. Show me."

Show him? How, if he's up there? How can-?  
Oh, his own hand. He can use that to guide him. His right one moves up as he realizes this, alighting on the same shoulder, just barely. He rubs it gently but awkwardly, not wrapping it, trying to copy the dream-scape Wood's patterns. To, from, to, from, right, left and across to the other one. Moving over and around and even back; that seems to help, pressing and teasing.  
"Yes, like that. Keep going."

The trail moves up now, along the side seam of his neck, feeling better with every stitch, more natural to him. What is it about the neck? The dream always goes there, no matter when, with wing or beak, it makes no difference. His skin still flares the same, still tenses the same when he goes over _that_ curve, knees squeezing together. He can hear his breathing again when he gets to the chest, running along the gaps, the underline of the - what's that thing called? Wood called it something once, what could he - plastron, yes, remembering and sensation both making him quiver inside and out.

Down, further, nearer to the second best part, the legs. They rub against each other in the dreams sometimes; they surrendered him to Wood that first wonderful instance; and now, when he gets there, they yield to his touch anew. From base, trickling up as high as he can go, closer, down again; the other glove gripping the surface he lies on as the first changes side, stiffening, a third time down. Colour spits in his mind's eye, fragmented. God, he can't take much more of this.

As if hearing his plea, the errant hand slides his legs apart and falteringly goes between.

Since there's no 'bottom' of the shell, the action sets the resulting tingle off straight away. He's been waiting for that, and he has it, and now he wants more of it, needs it. There's movement, friction, against the grain, along it, and repeat as it begins. Slowly at first, sensuously, taking in every pore. He exhales more openly now, shakily, longingly, giving more way to his invisible instigator. Feels good already, so very good...

"Is this how it goes in the dream?" Wood speaks again, but he can't reply, he has no words to form, just noise in his head and all over him, and he tries to make one, to no effect. Too distracted. Too caught in the wing there and the strangely far low tone reverbing in the base of his spine. His lower body twitches into it, once, twice.  
"I'll take it talking is helping you. How do you feel, Dub?"  
One more go, have to, more success this time, he chokes out a "please", begging him to take him where he's going to, what Wood's bringing him to--

"Why please? You're the one doing this to yourself."

It all freezes in place, locked, mentally tilted. He - he is? No, that can't -  
He attempts to move his own hand down, and the feeling repeats where it was before. Oh. So he is. Of course.

"I didn't say stop."  
No, he didn't, right. He obediently begins where he left off. He, it's him that's doing it, for the raven's sake; he's gotta try and remember that. It's him pushing his own hand against himself, starting the spinning up again, arching. It's him, exposer and exposed.

"Interesting," says the temptuous voice, "that you forgot that, isn't it? That I do nothing, and still you call for me. That I can e-exert so much control over you, even from further away." And the very word, the idea of it, helps things get slightly fiercer harder faster. "That with only a dream to go on, you spread yourself open for me, revealing that part of you I've claimed so many times.  
"You're at your most vulnerable when you're like this. Knowing you're being watched, heard. Welcoming it. ...You like that feeling. Don't you?"  
"Y- _esss_ ," his own whisper responds from beneath.

It's so familiar now, yet not. A rhythm reached, keeping the pace, found in the mists of every one of these dreams turned reality. Hips actually writhing now, senses spiking, neon lines flashing in his vision, and most of all the connection and disconnection, his self paling and lost to a hypnotic pulse. How could he have ever thought this wouldn't be enough?  
"Like was the wrong word. Crave - that's closer to the mark. You crave my presence at the very least, in your mind or the room. Show me," Wood orders, his voice thicker with his own 'like' by now. "Show me how much you yearn for it."  
And he does, for every inch of him is tied to it, to the covered stare of his doctor, the gaze going deeper than feathers or limbs could hope for. Circling, brushing, exploring, into the cushion and up again, breathing rapider going stronger rubbing quicker sinking more, close already, achingly close, how can he be so near but so far?

"Just one thing is missing, I believe."  
Missing, is that what it is, he's doing all he can, what's missing?  
"A name. You know who to thank for taking you this far. Say it."

"--ih--"  
No, he can't. It's stuck again, trapped in his breath again.

"What's wrong? Surely you know who I mean?"  
"W-- w--"  
"This shouldn't be hard, Dub. Say my name. I'm waiting."  
A noise from him he can't put letters to; it's making him angry, both of them, it's keeping him stuck at the edge, compressed, a cluster of conflicting colours and why won't it just go already...?!  
"Say it. Say my name, Dub. Say my name, slut. Say--"

" _W- **WOOD...!**_ "

 

Somehow, everything uncoils into its proper place. The spectrum gives way. The whiteness rocks him into audiovisual silence, ringing. Lightning in glass.

 

 

The real world returns to him both earlier and later than usual. The first, from the orgasms Wood's driven him to. The second, from the pale imitations he gave himself before.

Through the fog, he gives one of his feet a test wiggle and finds his legs to have fallen down, squashing his hand between them. Oops. He pulls it out and sits up before the embarrassment can set in, only managing to compound it with dizziness.  
 _Jesus... This experiment kink whatever it is made me come like that?_  he thinks, coherently.  
Then, _wait. Crap, I'm using words?_ He's not surprised that he can figure out language so shortly afterwards, but that doesn't stop it being disappointing. After one session, he got stuck saying the word 'wow' over and over again for half an hour; he knows he can do better than that.

Speaking of which, Wood looks a bit ruffled, further back on the chair. Has he been doing the same thing up there? Must have done. What's watching without joining in, after all?  
"You all right?"  
"...Yes. I'm fine. Was that - good for you too?"  
"Yeah, it was great, but... I'm sorry. It's just not the same as when you do it. You do it better."  
"Hm. That's - what I expected you to say."

He still doesn't seem all there, so the turtle ditches the cushion and starts climbing to his level. Part of him wants to question aloud why he used that word, the s-word Dolly tells him she is when she's having an episode. But honestly, if it got him to that delicious inbetween, it shouldn't be a big deal.

"So. Got any bright ideas for when I come here next?" he asks when he gets up there, hoping the answer is no.  
The other physically responds to that, shaking himself softly. "Well. I **was**  hoping to leave that to you. But--"

"Good. Cos I was gonna say: next time, I want you. Nothing else. No mirrors, no wall between us, no 'preparations' or tests or anything like that." One last kiss, sealing the statement. "Just you, on top of me, screwing me senseless. Okay? That sound like a plan?"

And Dr Wood replies, in an odd sort of voice, "That would be perfect."


End file.
